


Sex doesn't solve all the problems (we do it anyway)

by a_different_equation



Series: you give love a bad name [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Because of Reasons, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Codependency, Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Roller Coaster, Erotic Poetry, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, From Sex to Love, Heavy Angst, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, M/M, Masturbation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poetic, Porn With Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock is a Mess, So Wrong It's Right, and fuck up some more, but they don't know it yet because idiots in love, it's a journey which starts here but won't end here, they also will have more sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-04 00:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14581041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: Watson returns home drunk after an evening with friends of rugby and finds Holmes still awake. The detective decides to put the good doctor to bed, so that he can sleep off the hangover.However, something unexpected happens and Holmes cannot escape.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelian/gifts).
  * A translation of [Romani Holiday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916364) by [Kelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelian/pseuds/Kelian). 



> Hello,
> 
> this is the first story of Kelian's - "You're mine, doctor"- series. They allowed me to translate it from Italian into English. The original title of the story is... "Romani Holiday". Let me assure you - and warn you - this story? Not a holiday. It's fucked up, it's ANGST, it's pure sex and drama, and at some points I was not sure if I should tag it as possible dub-con. However, it's stunning storytelling and has poetry in its language that I can only hope to bring across in my translation. 
> 
> And SPOILER: it's part of a series that has an OVERALL Happy Ending for Johnlock. Pinky-promise. It just take a while (& more sex) to solve all their problems.
> 
> There is beauty in the darkness; and oh yes, both of them are in a dark place, but they are (our) beautiful disaster. 
> 
> Now, here, is the time to click to the return button.  
> Otherwise: read on (and scream with me, oh, man, I shouted at them while reading & translating!).
> 
> I'll post it in parts; however, as it's a translation and I've it almost finished, expect updates soon. 
> 
> Last chance to turn around, folks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning: Holmes reminiscenes his time with the doctor; also he is having a wank. And then Watson comes home - oh, boy!

For Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was like a dance, and now he was dancing while his heart was pounding.

His love for John was like the most powerful drug the detective has ever tried.

It must have been the most exciting experience that he had ever experienced.

For Watson was (his) life, and Holmes wanted to get drunk with him until their very existence would come to an end.

Holmes could no longer deny it to himself: he had become totally dependent of Watson.

It had been a lost battle ever since their first meeting, when the good doctor had come to see the house that he later would share together. The place they both called home now: 221b Baker Strret.

As soon as Holmes' gaze had rested on that serious and flawless figure of Dr. John H. Watson, he had realized that his heart belonged to him forever.

The other man had managed to capture him at first glance, and has proved to be a loyal companion ever since, something that Holmes had believed to be impossible before.

 

* * *

 

Holmes closed his eyes and recalled all the details of his doctor.

Immediately, his heart skipped a beat in that wild dance that it always performed now, whenever something reminded Holmes of the man with blond hair and his piercing blue eyes.

Holmes’ breathing became accelerated. His face was red. A drop of sweat slid down his temple. His skin was flushed as if he was sick, and somehow he was: a disease from which there was no known cure and from which he did want to be cured anyway; he just wanted to be consumed by the searing passion that consumed him from the inside for so many months now.

A subdued and prolonged groan escaped Holmes’ lips.

It was not only the adventures that excited Holmes anylonger. The details of the cases that be stored away in his mind palace later, but also his fellow lodger and ever-loyal companion and best friend, that occupied his mental state.

Nowadys, he used his skillset for his very own, private study. These days, he catalogued details that no one would have noticed, but were fundamental and exciting: the shape of his ear lobe, big and rough hands, his muscles moving under the skin.

Dr. John H. Watson proved to be an ever-changing puzzle to solve.

For a second Holmes lacked the breath to continue. He choked, unable to do anything to avoid it until, with a deep sigh, the air filled his lungs once more.

Now, he could exhale. A sound suspiciously similiar to a moan. Or maybe there was even the first letter of a name shaped. 

_J -_

 

* * *

 

Holmes had never thought it possible that he, Sherlock Holmes, could be reduced to such a man. Actually, he never thought of being reduced for anyone.

From an early age on, he had avoided love. While his peers were running after skirts, he was already honing the deductive method that would later make him the most famous private detective in London.

It had not taken him long to come to the conclusion that he would under no circumstances compromise his perfect, delicate device that was his mind. No, already as a teenager, he had sworen against all fights of fancy.

Only when meeting John Watson on that fateful January day, Sherlock Holmes had realized his mistake.

His love for Watson - _John_ \-  had not only taught him that he had not to compromise, but also made him more efficiently than ever because with John Watson at his side, he wanted to impress and amaze the man.

Unfortunately, the good doctor was too busy courting Miss Morstan to notice what a powerful influence he held over him.

 

* * *

 

Holmes arched up.

Passion.

Pulse.

Pleasure.

Pain.

The bed covers were rumpled from his noctual activities. He bit his lips to stifle new groans. It was difficult.

However, the alternative was to alert Mrs. Hudson and this would not be done. While the woman had found him in more compromising and certainly scandalous situations before, Holmes had no interest to showcase another aspect of his eccentricity.

Also, he had no intention to put an end or to delay his pleasure. 

 

Holmes swallowed hard, his body trembled at the limit of control. He recalled once again the strong body of the ex-soldier. He imagined Watson’s voice whispering in his ear. All of it made him almost scream.

Suddenly, his mind went blank.

The fulfilling maelstrom that followed almost overwhelmed him.

If only Watson could have been really here at his side. If only Holmes could really feel his smell or hear their ragged breathing. If only there would be marks by Watson on his skin,

 

If all of this had been real, Holmes would never asked anything from life again.

Instead, he had to be content with images created for the occasion, extrapolated from his memories and fantasies.

 

His heart was dancing; his chest was chanting; every moment of that pleasure was so intense that Holmes almost lost his senses. He wanted to stop time in order to prolong it forever. Unfortunately, Holmes knew that was not possible and that the end was all too near.

 

Holmes moaned his name.

_John._

His heels were pressed hard into the matress. His body was bathed in sweat. His hips buckled up further.

The cool air of the room that hit him when he came down was like a kiss on his overheated skin. Holmes’ free hand tightened his grip on the sheet. His eyes were closed. His contracted muscles were weary and tired. If it was possible, his breath became even shorter and spasmodic.

 

Suddenly it was over.

 

His naked body jerked. He stiffened. A cry caught in his throat, when he finally reached fulfillment.

 

* * *

 

Holmes fell back on the bed, flushed and panting, trembling uncontrollably from head to toe.

 

With effort, he got up to retrieve his undergarments and his nightshirt. Then, he cleaned himself with a handkerchief that he would wash the next day by hand. Burning the evidence would be an option but he ran out of them at an alarming rate this days. Mrs. Hudson would find out eventualy, and a maid to deal with it was out of the question.

 

He lay back and looked at the ceiling of his room, leaving his mind wander where it preferred, and it immediately ran to Watson.

Oh, will it never end?

Will he, his treacherous heart and his foolish organ never have enough?

That man had irrevocably changed his life and Watson did not even know - how? 

 

He pressed his arm over his eyes. Aching tiredness came over him, while his breathing returned to normal.

When the tingle of excitement left his body it was always a disappointment. However, Holmes knew he should better rest, recover and built up his inner walls. All that was necessary for facing the next day.

Tonight, the good doctor was out, which was why Holmes had decided to give into his base instincts without the fear of being interrupted.

He closed his eyes. He forced himself to relax. He was about to fall asleep, when Holmes heard the door of his room open.

 _Watson_.

 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the same procedure as the last times, surely? Watson comes home drunk and Holmes puts him into bed. It happened so often - what could be different this time...^^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello & welcome (back)!
> 
> Originally, I wanted to post a far longer chapter but this weekend is my birthday (Saturday) and the translated part has a lovely cliffhanger, I thought... let's give you a little update now, and, hopefully, on Monday, a new one. Quick but short updates; some sexy shorties, so to speak, to brighten up the day. That's quite fitting if you read on :D
> 
> Thanks for elwinglre & jobooksncoffee for your comments, and for all the kudos, it is a great motivation to keep on translating! Oh, and fyi, I changed the titles (I used them in my Google Docs anyway but I thought... no, that sounds like pure porn --- but the series *is* PWP, sooooo...): 
> 
> "sex doesn't solve all the problems (we do it anyway)" > part 1, currently translating  
> "fuck & fight (not particular in that order)" > part 2, already finished  
> "love sucks (let me suck you off instead)" > part 3, written but not translated yet
> 
> Yeah, not what I (or my teachers) had in mind when I learned Italian in school (or courses in uni)... lalala.  
> Thanks again to kelia for the permission to translate their stories. 
> 
> Hope, you'll have fun with drunk!Watson and mother hen/playing wife!Holmes. 
> 
> ade

Holmes opened his eyes and stiffened. Instantly, all his senses turned to the person who had entered his bedroom. He did not need to be Sherlock Homes (or maybe he did) to know who was the unexpected visitor.

Already the footsteps approaching his bed were a dead giveaway for the consulting detective.

The thought that if the man had entered his bedroom five minute before, and what he would have been witnessed then, set Holmes into panic for a second, but as it seems, fortuna seemed to be on his side.

 

* * *

 

"The good doctor has already returned from his happy evening?"

Holmes' voice was slightly hoarse, he reigistered. He cursed hinself for his lack of self-control. Especially, when he felt the other man getting closer to his bed.

Holmes could sense a whiskey aroma wafting around his friend. A feeling of relief invaded his body: Watson was probably too drunk to guess what had just happened in the room.

Only Holmes still tasted the slightly sour smell of his semen.

"I came to make sure you're asleep," Watson said, his voice a bit thick.

The doctor was hovering a few feet away from Holmes. For a second, Watson seemed to be in danger of falling and losing his balance, but he still pondered on, “You should sleep, you know? I bet you took something to stay awake.”

"Don't talk nonsense,” the detective snapped.

Then, he rushed to sit up because it seemed as if Watson would fall to the ground at any moment.

"Don't lie, I'm sure you took something," Watson slurred, slipped in a little hiccup and staggered back. Holmes stood up faster and held him up, finding Watson nearer than he had thought at first. Hoeever, Watson continued, unaware to it, "You always take some strange substance. Sooner or later you will poison yourself and I won't be here to save you.”

Watson leaned against the consulting detective. He had closed his eyes for a few seconds, apparently trying to counter the feeling that the bedroom was spinning around him.

Even he was a doctor, Watson apparently had not realized that he had been drinking too much.

The reason for his best friend's indulgence was easy to deduce: Watson’s rugby friends had continue to offer drink after drink to celebrate Watson’s engagement to Mary Morstan and Watson had been unable to refuse.

 

"Come, let me take you to bed," Holmes proposed. He pushed Watson cautiously toward the door into his private office. He intended to lead him back to his room.

"Do you know that might be misunderstood?" Watson asked. He barely was able to open his eyes to see where he was going.

At least he was laughing at the double meaning that on other occasions Watson pretended not to grasp.

 

Tonight, Watson was so different from the serious and pragmatic person.

It was a transformation that never failed to fascinate the detective, so much in fact, that at times, he had thought of getting Watson drunk on purpose just to see that part of him.

Why I wished to do debase him and the other man in such a way? They were both not good men, not by a long shot, and there was something dark but also liberating in this other side of Watson's personality. A side that only Holmes could witness - and cherished it therfore even more.

It might be the alcohol that brought it to light --- but it was real nothingless.

And so it happened, and happened again, and happened tonight once more: John Watson returned drunk, debauched and a bit more loose, and Holmes waited up and helped him into hus bed.

Watson would and will not remember anything later.

 

* * *

 

Holmes adjusted his grip to better lead Watson, then they walked on.

Holmes could feel Watson’s weight and heat. The sharp smell of alcohol and tobacco was mixed with what he already knew and loved to be his John's own sent.

With some difficulty, Holmes opened the door of the small but cozy doctor's office. It was no time too late as Watson was almost a dead weight in his arms. Holmes' only luck was that there was no resistance, contrary to what happened when Watson was sober who would have protested to being manhandled.

A few minutes later, Holmes managed to take Watson to his room and made him sit on the bed.

The odd feeling of a wife who helped her drunk husband crept onto Holmes. He smiled at the thought. In fact, he would not mind if such a thing had happened for real as it meant that the doctor would remain forever at his side. However, he might delete the solar system but he was well aware of society's view on such a relation: perversion. The only union was between man and woman, husband and wife, and not for pleasure but for procreation. 

What he wished for in secret was a sin. 

It was certainly not love.

 

Holmes took off Watson’s hat and placed it on a nearby chair, scarf and coat followed swift.

"Come on, it's time to sleep now," Holmes said with a smirk.

For a second, he had thought about putting him into his nightshirt but that seemed to intimate of an action, even for friends, colleagues, partner in crime, and, at least, for now, roommates.

All he had wanted was to put a blanket over Watson, and then to let him sleep. Then, everything changed: something unexpected happened:

Watson kissed him.

 

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins... 
> 
> "I had wanted, I had dreamed of it and now, here he was, on top of me, both doing what we knew to be wrong for an infinite number of reasons, that would leave us condemned forever, but he, I, we both, did not care."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Sorry for the delay; RL has/had some demands. However, I'm back and the new chapter is almost 2k, sooooo... expect: Victorian Porn :D
> 
> There are probably some minor mistakes - I'm sadly not 100% 'back for good' - I'll look it over the next couple of days. However, I guess we ALL want to know what happens next :D So: Update.
> 
> Thanks to kelian. Thanks to readers, followers & mutals. Kudos & Co are love!
> 
> All the best,  
> Ade.

Holmes froze.

 

The blanket was still clutched in his fingers, when the doctor pressed his lips against his. Holmes felt the ginger colored mustache against his upper lip but that did not bother him, quite the opposite in fact: he would love to repeat this sensation infinite.

 

_That I could have this after all the time I had desired it._

 

Holmes closed his eyes, trying to find the necessary strength to break the kiss and to let Watson walk away from him again.

 

"You are drunk, John," Holmes said with a bitter smile.

Gently, Holmes pressed his hands on Watson's chest.

 

_I can only hope that the other cannot remember calling him by his first name._

_**John** has really a beautiful musicality._

_Probably he thought that the person before him was Mary, and this was why (s)he had kissed him._

 

That thought was painful and made Holmes' heart ache.

It was a truly depressing feeling.

That the woman was stealing what was his dearest in the world... and it was almost sure she knew.

 

* * *

 

Watson was the first real friend since his university days for Holmes, and the only one that had ever been able to remain at his side for so long. Victor Trevor had been the last, and it had not ended well.

Dr. John H. Watson, late from the Fifth Nothumberland Fusiliers and a doctor, had become something more: a partner for life, someone who gave his existence meaning, excitement as well as stability, but the dream would be over soon.

Before long his loyal companion would marry and would be gone forever, leaving him alone again to pick up the sharp fragments of his broken heart.

Despite all this, Holmes had decided to stay on the sidelines this time, because the last thing Holmes wanted was to be a hindrance to Watson's happiness, and if that woman was what made him happy, Holmes had no choice but to let him go.

 

* * *

 

When Holmes tried again to approach Watson, carefully trying to remove his clothing, Watson reacted again.

Once more, Watson attacked his mouth.

Seconds, minutes, hours later, whonknows, who cares? He went further and opened the collar of Holmes' shirt.

Then, he pulled him even closer.

He almost forced Holmes to open his lips.

Their next kiss was even deeper.

 

* * *

 

Holmes closed his eyes, trying to find once again the self-control which he needed to put an end to this enormous mistake that that both would regret surely sooner than later. 

The detective knew that it was not right to take advantage of Watson like that.

 

The doctor did not like men.

He certainly did not love Holmes.

Watson was engaged to be married.

 

Holmes' mind was lucid enough to understand what he was doing, and although on other occasions Holmes took the opportunity that fate was giving him, this time he did not commit an act so mean, not against his beloved John.

 

* * *

 

Unwillingly, and Holmes observed an annoyed and unhappy expression mirroring his own in the man's face in front of him, his determination faltered for a few seconds, but Holmes managed miraculously to resist, amazed at himself.

"You are not yourself, doctor," Holmes said in a calm and soft voice, trying to make it easier for them both. He hoped against his own heart that John would fall asleep as soon as he put his head on the pillow, "I am not your Mary. You better go to sleep, tomorrow things will seem clearer.”

 

Holmes managed with difficulty to get Watson to lie down and was about to leave, when a hand grabbed his wrist firmly, forcing him to remain on the bed.

From that position he could not help but notice those blue and bright eyes that bewitched him, body and soul.

Watson's lips were slightly parted and showed perfect white teeth. His face was reddened by alcohol and excitement due to the kisses of a moment before.

Holmes' breathing became broken. Even his face was tinged with the emotions that constantly tried to keep hidden.

 

* * *

 

"My Holmes...," Watson whispered softly.

Watson tried to kiss Holmes once again but in a more stringent way, trying to get his tongue in the much desired mouth to explore it.

The exhilaration had unlocked his inhibitions, erasing the rational part that characterized him, allowing his attraction to Holmes come to the surface.

Because even though Watson tried to ignore certain signals and impulses of his body when he was sober, there was always something in the dark that drove him to make the most absurd and dangerous business with him.

God knew what he had tried not to pay attention but in the end he always would follow him, always worried that something crazy would happen and they would not be able to return to their homes.

 

John Watson was a fool.

He is a fool in love, and in moments like this, he can be true to himself.

And maybe, for a night, for some stolen moments, he can be true to his love too.

His Holmes.

 

* * *

 

The detective could resist no longer those words whispered with a tone that blocked his breath, so full of feeling for a moment, unable to believe them really feel.

Finally he parted his lips and returned the kiss almost frantically.

 

_I had wanted, I had dreamed of it and now, here he was, on top of me, both doing what we knew to be wrong for an infinite number of reasons, that would leave us condemned forever, but he, I, we both, did not care._

 

Holmes had no doubt that if they continued they would not be able to stop, yet he was ready to sell his soul for a single night with the doctor even though the consequences that awaited him presented themselves disastrous.

After all, this was not the first time he had done wrong personal choices despite his boundless genius: a prime example was his love for the criminal Irene Adler, a woman who embodied most of the things against which he was fighting, but had a deep love and important, just as his feelings for housemate, although extremely different.

 

Holmes closed his eyes, trying not to spoil it all before,

 

...finally...

 

his the companion in adventure dragged him above himself.

* * *

 

 

Holmes went on all fours, placing his hands on the sides of Watson's face could --- he could not help but look eager.

 

* * *

 

A little sigh went hoarse from Watson's lips.

Then, they resumed the kiss.

Holmes putted his hand through Watson's hair in order to draw closer to him.

 

_I had never felt so good as now, never in my life, although my head was running and all was not very polished, I was sure I wanted to live that moment forever._

 

* * *

 

Watson knows exactly who it was who was kissing.

It is the man who had stolen his heart since the first time he had seen him. The man he had lived together on Baker Street. The man who had returned to from his "death" at Reichenbach.

Watson had never told Holmes.

 

That was why he, John Watson, wooed Mary Morstan, and that was also the reason why he had asked her to marry him, he wanted to remove the man from his deepest desires, but he realized very quickly that he had not the slightest work, because every time he got drunk, the lust escaped his control, and that was the final reason why today, on this particular evening, he went to see if he, Sherlock Holmes, was still awake when he came home.

 

It was not the first time he, Dr. John Watson, did something like that and he had often found the roommate intent in one of his studies or in an experiment.

By the time he had managed not to give in, even when it was brought to his room almost bodily. However, certain temptations were strong, like the one to steal a kiss while he was sleeping, luckily it was always managed to limit itself to observe it.

 

But all was different now... and will be, at least for tonight.

 

That vow made Watson to himself, to them.

 

* * *

 

Watson's hand slipped under the nightshirt to touch Holmes' bare back where the muscles trained by boxing matches were moving sinuous under the skin.

No one would have guessed that the clothes he usually wore hid a physical as well defined and he was lucky enough to be made part of this secret, not only because he had seen some of his encounter, but also because "the good doctor Watson" had always had the pleasure of treat him with multiple injuries who obtain, giving him the opportunity to be able to touch without feeling guilty or suspicious.

What a _good_ doctor he is...

 

* * *

 

"Watson, wait .... Mary ..." the detective tried to protest, but was immediately silenced with a new kiss by Watson.

Expert hands opened the coat and then touched the chest and his back, making Holmes shiver with pleasure.

Holmes stifled a little moan, feeling that his surrender was near; after all, it was only for one night.

 

It was the doctor who was the involving and enticing, not wanting to let go, his conscience was clear and it was likely that only Holmes would remember what had happened in the morning.

He really has anything to lose, but himself.

 

In the end, Holmes could not help but give in.

 

_I am (only) a man._

 

* * *

 

Holmes intensified the kiss, slowly relaxing.

He unbuttoned Watson's shirt revealing the chest that for so long had only dreamed touch.

He slipped a hand under the fabric, touching the flushed skin. He felt his chest moving to their rhythm of shared breathing. He shifted slightly to the left and right at his fingertips felt his heart restless drumming in the chest, as if trying to escape.

 

It was one of the most exciting things Holmes had ever experienced.

 

It was not too long before all the blood began to flow quickly between his legs.

 

* * *

 

Holmes left that mouth that looked frantic and went down to kiss his neck and bite his collarbone slightly, careful not to leave incriminating signs; he did not want that on the next day they were embarrassing questions raised, in the case that the memories of that night will not be forgotten.

 

Holmes froze, petrified, when out of the thin lips came a loud groan that choked in half. He had not quite forgotten that they should not make any kind of noise if they did not want to wake up and suspicious the lady of the house, so he returned to Watson's mouth to silence him.

He continue to undress him, eager, then he threw his shirt somewhere on the floor.

 

* * *

 

Holmes ran his fingers over Watson's stomach as he felt the other shake hands and pull his short dark hair, hard.

His heart was bursting in his chest. To take advantage of that occasion that he would never have believed possible in life, sure of having to settle for ever of his erotic fantasies.

Holmes would give up anything in the world, even if the doctor had suddenly come to his senses and he had tried to stop him: Holmes had reached the point of no return, and now he wanted it - him - more than anything in the world.

Sherlock Holmes had an almost painful need to become one with John Watson at least once in his life.

 

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have sex. It could be lovemaking, but it is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Thank you for your interest, kudos and comments. It means a lot. Further, thank you for the likes and reblogs on tumblr. Overall, just THANK YOU. What is a story without a reader? Not much, for sure. And I'll admit: I'm one of those people who love feedback.
> 
> Fair warning: the new chapter is tough. This is a work of fiction. To write or translate a story does not mean that a person supports such things in real life. 
> 
> I don't romantizes what both fictional (!) characters do here. As the series title stats: they give love a bad name. They, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, love each other --- that does not mean that it's love making what they do. In particular, Ritchie!Holmes isn't as funny as it appears at the surface when you look closer. The fic series, IMO, adresses this.
> 
> Last time to turn arround.

Holmes continued to kiss his John as if his life, his own existence depend on it, and was this not an accurate observation, description even: John Watson was his life. And tonight, for once in his life, he could find a way to express his love.

Therefore, Holmes put his hand inside Watson’s underwear, finding his sex already hard and leaking.

He held his breath for some moments before grabbing the sex more firmly. Then, he began to touch it.

Immediately, he heard Watson groaning in his mouth. Watson grasped his shoulders; suddenly, his body was arching up, legs wide; more pleasure, _oh, please_.

They were both crazy: the doctor for what he was doing and the detective trying to see the reactions that his caresses were causing to the body beneath him.

It was sheer madness.

Pure pleasure.

 

* * *

 

Holmes jumped when he felt a hand squeeze his crotch.

_Oh, John._

The other man had taken his hand out of his hair to move them lower. Then, fingers began to stroke his sex. Only the thin fabric of his nightshirt was between his sex and his lover’s hand.

It was a wonderful feeling; his head felt empty and full at once; he rushed to store away all those new memories; all his senses were completely turned on the two of them.

Holmes was able to observe John’s flushed face.

It was this vision that made his whole body tingle from head to toe. It was an intense rush of pleasure that could bring him to orgasm alone. He reached down quickly to stop it from happening.

 _Too soon, oh, John_.

He stifled a groan.

Another mark on his shoulder; it pierced his shoulder; brand him for this night and tomorrow.

He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

He realized that Watson was trying to hold back the moans, and failing, but perhaps he also understood that he should be quiet but was too drunk, and hopefully, on much more than alcohol.

_John._

Holmes gasped breathlessly, desperately trying to regain control of the situation.

He broke off the contact - just a little bit, not completely, only to cool them both off - and returned fast, unable to stay away from Watson, his John, for too long.

 

This time, Holmes bend his head.

This time, it was not his hand but his mouth.

 

He could feel the desire for the man under him; Watson's hand grabbed his thighs in a lascivious way.

 

It might not be fair to him; John was loose by alcohol; maybe he did not want to continue; yet he, Holmes, wanted to continue. It made him weak; he should be ashamed for his base instinct, his needs, his lust, but he did not care. None of this mattered anymore.

_John. John. John._

Holmes closed his eyes.

 

He kept sucking, slowly, oh so slowly.

Then, rubbing the two erections through the fabric of their pants.

Slowly, slowly.

Slowly.

 

* * *

 

Holmes put his fingers in his mouth.

Then, lifting his bottom, just enough to allow him to lodge a finger between the buttocks and massaging his opening, trying to relax the muscle ring.

Slowly.

He had done his private studies. Books only provided so much information, and prostitutes proved to be quite helpful, but the best preparation and the most pleasure brought him his own experience in the darkness of his rooms, alone at night, when everyone else was asleep, he could see what pleasure this part of his body bring him. Once, it had been curiosity, now, it felt like necessity. Even society consider it abnormal, a perversion, a sin, he knew that it was his burning heart and desire.

Holmes entered his first finger with a grimace.

Slowly, oh, so slowly.

He still felt some discomfort for that unnatural intrusion but he knew that soon the pleasure would be the only thing on his mind.

Holmes opened his eyes and bit his tongue to keep from screaming, when his erection was grabbed again with firm grip. He looked down and saw Watson's lips curved in an amused grin that Holmes hardly would have seen under normal circumstances.

 

No doubt, the alcohol had removed every resistance.

The alcohol had made him more open, more honest, more _John_.

Oh, how Holmes wished to see him like this always.

 

* * *

 

Holmes leaned forward to kiss Watson once more.

He faced him when he entered the second finger. A shudder ran through his spine.

Slowly, he moved his fingers. Widen himself, loose himself, open himself up.

Slowly, gradually, he got used to it.

His body shook with pleasure.

The bites his partner had left on his shoulders and neck marked him; brand him; burned like fire.

John had touched him everywhere; possessive.

There will be traces of their doing for days to come; he will have to find an excuse, an explanation; soon, not now, now, the only important thing had been that John Watson had free rain over his body.

 

* * *

 

When Holmes thought he had prepared himself sufficiently, he removed his fingers, feeling the ring of muscles loose and open.

He knew that their eyes are dilated; dark, pitch-black. He knew that their heartbeats hammer; in synch and all too fast; excited, and oh, so alive.

Observe and deduce.

Sherlock Holmes is a detective and John Watson is his ever loyal companion and trusted partner.

There is a new game afoot, but they will have each others back, one will follow while the other leads.

Always have, always will, it cannot be any different now.

 

* * *

 

Watson surprised Holmes, scaring him a little, not much, not really, it was just unexpected and Holmes should be used by now that Watson was the only person on this earth who could surprise him, and that this will not change when they are in bed --- and still… out of a sudden: reversed positions.

 

John Watson on top.

Sherlock Holmes under him.

 

Holmes could look at the doctor now.

Watson's face was twisted with an expression of pure animal desire as he cover his body with his, like a predator that had caught its prey and was now about to rip it off.

It should be arousing.

Holmes had watched the roommate take off his undergarments quickly, before he positioned himself between the once again open legs.

Watson had licked his lips.

 

* * *

 

The detective closed his eyes.

He raised himself a bit to prepare himself - body, mind and soul - to be possessed by the only person he really wanted to belong to.

 

He clenched his teeth and took the sheets between his fingers when he heard Watson enter him without too much preamble.

 

* * *

 

It could be sweeter, Holmes knew it.

It could be kinder, Holmes knew it.

It could mean something more, Holmes knew it.

It could be lovemaking, but it was not.

 

* * *

 

All Holmes could do was to bore down his body enough. Hoping that the piercing pace would ebb away. Blinking away the upcoming tears in his eyes. Taking deep breaths. Relaxing his muscles, clearing his mind, hardening his heart.

 

The new push was too soon.

Holmes had to suffocate a cry; a bit in his hand; out of pain instead of pleasure; stiffening his muscle; tight like a vice were his muscle now; out of pain instead of pleasure; but John cried in pleasure.

 

John moaned.

For him, it was pleasure.

 

A push, then another and another, in quick succession, it was not a union even they were bound together because it was Watson who moved and Watson who sank his teeth all over his body, ravenous as a wolf, stifling the sounds that rose in his throat .

 

Holmes would never have believed it possible that a controlled person like Watson could be so passionate in sex, even though perhaps the merit went mostly to the fact that he was completely drunk, but, despite everything, Holmes liked to see Watson so without boundaries, possessed by desire.

 

Holmes bit his tongue to avoid to make too loud sounds. Nothing to distract Watson, to alarm him, to bring him to his senses.

Focus on his moans.

Focus on the pushes, faster and more precise.  
Holmes arched and stretched his muscles to the maximum to provide the perfect vessel for him.

He clawed back to the sheets to not to cling to his sweaty body risking to scratch Watson accidentally, even if he wanted to feel the warmth of the man against his skin.

 

* * *

 

Large drops of sweat dripped down his temples and hair.

 

* * *

 

Holmes was no fool; he knew that Watson only saw a body; not him, Holmes, but a alcohol infused vision of a (wo)man.

There was nothing to be done about it, and he could not stop it anymore, but Holmes did not mind it at all if this was the price he had to pay; not before, not now, probably not tomorrow or in the future.

Holmes had never imagined it could happen and that reality was so much more intense than his fantasies…

No, he might be a fool but there was nothing to be done about it.

 

He hold on for the ride.

Quite literal.

 

* * *

 

Holmes jerked his eyes wide and almost let out a cry, when Watson bit his teeth into the flesh around the nipple before licking away the blood.

Slowly.

The pushes increased even a little more.

 

There was pain.

But there was pleasure in pain.

And Holmes was addicted to it.

Always has, always will.

 

The pulse, the small twinge, the twists and turns, it turned him on.

Oh, how it turned him on.

Pleasure.

Pain.

Pulse.

Push.

Pleasure.

 

Holmes wanted to scream.

 _JOHN_.

 

Restless.

Eager.

More.

Oh God, more.

Oh God, yes.

More.

 

Holmes looked at his companion's face, flushed and sweaty as his own, and could not resist putting a hand in his neck and kiss him.

 

_John. John. John._

 

Holmes choked a moan in his mouth, when a big hand began to take care of his erection, making it difficult to breathe.

 

_J --- j ---_

 

* * *

 

Holmes felt Watson fill him with a loud moan. Seconds later, he collapsed on him, panting and grunting.

There were fingers smoothing his sides, then tighten possessively as if the doctor thought Holmes could or would escape.

 

A few minutes passed before Watson fell asleep, snoring slightly.

 

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes thoughts and actions after having sex with Watson for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> As you can see: the chapter number went up once more. It turns out the after-sex part is more than 3k, and as it's the night and well as the next morning, and first Holmes and then Watson's perspective, I decided to split it in two chapters. So: quicker update too!
> 
> I love kelian's Holmes; he's such a beautiful mess. Terribly human; oh, he's so in love. It's stupid what he does (and did and will do) but it shows an insight into the emotional sight of him... Well, let's cut it short: I love it (him) --- and I hope you're going to love the newest chapter too!
> 
> Ade

Holmes closed his eyes and put an arm on his forehead, trying to recover.  
  
The weight of the man who slept above him did not bother him.

In his heart, he would remain so forever, but Holmes knew that he should not give into his wish to sleep next to Watson - _John_ \- if he wanted to avoid a very unpleasant awakening with both of them naked in the same bed, dirty with what was undoubtedly seminal liquid come morning.  
   
  
Watson would not have been able to accept something like that, even though he was reciprocating in his heart, his mind always so respectful of the law that rebelled against the illegality of the act.

Holmes also had no doubts that Watson loved Mary. Even the discovery that there were also deep feelings that the doctor felt towards him, and because of this it was now even more difficult to leave him, it was also true that Holmes could not selfishly choose to trap Watson in a relationship like that.  
  
John Watson was a doctor and an ex-soldier, but even more, a famous writer since he started writing and publishing their adventures. Watson desperately wanted to be a respectable subject of the English society. Sharing a homosexual relationship with his roommate would forever ruin his reputation and worse.  
  
  
Holmes could not help sighing discouraged.

He was used to taking whatever he wanted without scruples. He knew that his ways of doing were not always well viewed by society, which often labelled him as strange and bizarre; he who always moved on the edge of the razor of legality, sometimes breaking it without ever having serious consequences, he had decided on this occasion to remain on the sidelines; not for personal gain but to save the life of the person who now knew he was the most important in the world for him.

 

* * *

  
  
Holmes moved carefully to not to wake his companion. Even he doubted that a cannon would have had any effect.  
  
He carefully got out of bed and looked around thoughtfully, trying to force himself to prepare everything as he had done all the previous times: the goal was to convince Watson that all that had happened was another drunken night.

That all that had happened was another night out with the rugby mates and nothing more had happen.

And if the good doctor had any suspicion, it would only that Holmes had put him into bed safely and had left him to sleep off his hungover.  
  
Luckily, the sheets were just crumpled. When he had moved the doctor in order to get them both off he had managed to make him turn on his back. Thanks to this that the seed had only stained his stomach when he had leaned against him had not dirtied anywhere else.

  
Holmes took a few minutes to observe his battered body, covered with scratches and bites.

His nipple ached from the bite. He touched it with the tips of his fingers and grimaced at the intense feel of pain.

His whole body ached from the heat with which Watson had possessed him and branded. Holmes wondered vaguely how he would hide those signs that will be much more evident in a few hours.  
  
  
He recovered his clothes and, with his trousers, began to wipe himself carefully between his legs so as not to drip all over the room; the good doctor must have really been holding back lately because the amount of seed was quite impressive.  
  
When Holmes was satisfied, he wadded up the dirty garment that was no longer needed. Given the strength with which Watson had made him his, he had expected to see the bloodstained fabric as well as the sperm, and he welcomed the sight.  
   
  
He took his nightshirt and carefully cleaned his lover's stomach. Then Holmes tried to arrange the sheets as best he could, renouncing to cover it so as not to wake Watson, hoping that he would take that mess as a result of an agitated sleep due to the hangover.  
  
Holmes covered his lover with a blanket.  
  
He was definitely not good at tidying up a room, but he knew better than he should as Watson arranged everything impeccably, a habit he had acquired in Afghanistan, seen every time he had to do it for him, he ended up arranging without much trouble before returning silently to his completely naked room.

 

* * *

  
Holmes closed the door.

He threw his clothes into a hidden corner where no one could see them. He put on a clean nightshirt. He went to his bed and sat on the edge. Immediately, he grimaced. He moved to settle down more comfortably, feeling the pain doze off again.  
  
  
Only then he let his gard down and letvthe mask slip.  
  
His head in his hands, he almost collapsed under the weight of what had just happened.

  
He had made a mess, he knew it, and all because he could not help himself.

  
Now he felt that he had chained himself to the doctor's body and soul more than he had wanted. Further, he had riskeda  compromising state for his delicate intellectual faculties. if only he had been submerged by the memories and frustration of not being able to be his again, but could not even forget how if nothing were what they had done, even if he wanted to, because it was too important a memory.  
  
  
He had no alternative, if he did not want to ruin that stupendous and precious friendship, he would have to pretend that night had never existed, chaining his feelings behind his mask of sought after madness and incredible genius, continuing to live his life as always, or at least doing its best to succeed.  
  
  
He got up again and went to his laboratory where he took some disinfectant to treat his wounds so they would not be infected.

On other occasions, as after the boxing matches or one of their cases, for example, the doctor would have thought to medicate him but this time he considered wiser to avoid.

He smirked at the thought of the face that would make the man in seeing those strange lesions but his reflections were abruptly interrupted when scratches and bites began to burn. He held his breath with a small grimace as he concluded the operation and then bandaged with caution.

 

* * *

  
It was well after midnight when he fell asleep. He was in pain, but fully satisfied.

 

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Not everything went and goes according to (Holmes') plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... It's a wrap (for "Sex doesn't solve all the problems (we do it anyway)")!!!
> 
> Thanks to all my (silent) readers. Kelian & I are VERY happy that this story found a new audience. Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, writing comments, likes and reblogs on tumblr, and, of course, the lovely chats about the translation process! It's been a privilege, honor & blast to be part of this fandom & labour of love project! 
> 
> Now, let's read what the morning after brings for Sherlock Holmes & John Watson... The Game is On!

When Watson went downstairs the next day – it was around noon – his head ached persistently and annoyingly.

He remembered nothing of the previous night, except that a carriage had left him at 221B Baker Street, then everything went dark, foggy and confused. However, his dreams must have been very agitated, given the conditions in which he had found the bed that morning, as if instead of sleeping, he had had a fight.

In fact, he seemed to have dreamed of something much more erotic: instead of a fight... a fuck. Yet, he had the vague feeling that the body beneath his had not been that of Mary or any other women.

 

The strangest thing, however, was the fact that he had woken up completely naked.

Sleeping entirely nude was not something he has ever done before. Not even when he had sexual relations with a woman, he always put on his nightshirt afterwards. The same was his habit – until today, it appeared – when he had been drunk. Even then, it was more the case of not undressing at all.

 

All of this pointed in the direction that something must have had happened... only, what?

 

* * *

 

Holmes was sitting in his favourite chair by the fireplace and appeared to be reading the newspaper, when Watson entered the living room.

Unknown to him, Holmes had been awake for a few hours already. Long enough to change his dressings, to bandage carefully his neck and to arrange the clothes as to hide all signs of the events of the night.

Now, unkown to him, Holmes was curious, and a bit nervous, to find out what the good doctor remembered.

"Good morning, Watson. I thought that you have decided to not keep me company today,” Holmes said in his usual mocking tone, trying to pretend nothing was out of the ordinary by lowering the newspaper and staring at the visibly distraught face of the roommate.

"I must have drunk more than I had believed last night," Watson replied with a grimace, partly ashamed, partly due to his headache. "What happened last night, Holmes?"

"Nothing to worry about," Holmes replied carelessly, realizing that the doctor really did not know what had occurred. On the one hand, he was relieved; on the other hand, he was a little disappointed. However, he knew better than to let his inner thoughts and feelings shown. “Only an unexpected experiment with led to some strange outcomes.”

 

Holmes returned to reading the newspaper, or more accurate, to pretend to be absorbed by today’s headlines and not to be fully enwrapped by last night’s events.

Shortly after, Holmes heard Watson cross the distance and sit down opposite to him. He felt Watson’s mesmerizing eyes on him but he pretend to have not notice it. As long as it would be possible, he would continue to ignore him.

Sadly, there was no such luck as the good doctor announced out of a sudden, clearly aiming for a professional tone, “Later, I would like to check on those injuries of yours, Holmes.”

“There is no need for it, I assure you.”

The detective stiffened against his will. Hastily, he turned the page of the newspaper.

“There is always the danger of getting an infection, Holmes. I have no intention of an accusation of you, or any patient of mine, dying of septicaemia or gangrene. Even I do imagine that there would be one or two congratulatory telegrams if I indeed would manage to kill you.”

Holmes laughed. It was their sense of humour, after all, was it not. He stopped when an intense pang of pain climbed up his back that left him breathless.

“No need to worry, mother hen, I have already treated my wounds. Be rest assured if I need further treatment, I will not fail to consult my personal physician.”

The wish for a miracle, that Watson would drop the subject so he, Holmes, could go back to pretending to read the newspaper, busted when the doctor inquired some minutes later, “What kind of an experiment?”

Apparently, he had not let it go at all.

 

Watson had turned his complete focus on his companion, and today, for a reason unknown to him, the beautiful profile of Holmes moved him even more profoundly. He could register a slight tingling in his groin. Holmes’ eyes, normally betraying no emotions, seemed to have a flicker of something new in it.

“Since when do you have an interest in my experiments, dear doctor?” Holmes retorted with an amused little smile that curved his fine thin lips.

“It is well-known fact, dear Holmes, that your experiments are often dangerous,” Watson answered. “And seeing the outcome”, he continued while fixing the bandages with a pointed glare, “I would like to be at least posted about any further developments. And let it be to be prepared for the worst, old man.”

Holmes smiled.

Watson registered the intent to laugh as well but something seems to hold him back. What was it? Was it Holmes’ overall unwillingness to let most people get a glimpse into his inner workings? Alternatively, was more going on? Maybe he was indeed more hurt than he led on and pain prevented him to laugh.

Something was off, Watson was sure of it, high likely even more than one thing, but for the life of it, he could not remember or suss it out!

“You don’t have to worry, Watson. It is an experiment that I will not have the pleasure of repeating.”

Holmes aimed for nonchalance but there Watson sensed that there was a hint of bitterness in his friend’s words. However, his raised eyebrow as a non-verbal asks if everything was all right (or more a comment that something was clearly amiss) was ignored.

Holmes pretended to be engrossed by the newspaper once more.

 

* * *

 

Holmes tried once more to relax.

It was probably good that the doctor was still suffering from his hangover so he was not as observant as Holmes knew his companion to be on other occasions.

While John Watson was no Sherlock Holmes, he had his moments and when his medical degree as well as his best friend’s welfare was concerned; his Boswell had proved to be more perceptive than he appeared to be at first glance.

For both of their benefit, today was not such an occasion.

Holmes watched John carefully: the deep circle around his eyes, the skin tone greyish, and the unusual sensibility towards light. He studied it and stored all the details away because he wanted to know every little thing about Watson.

It was quite remarkable that Watson had not caught on his interest towards him. How convenient that his mask seem to be still in place. All he seemed to be to John Watson was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, who had a special talent, made a habit, and created his own line of profession out of examining, observing, cataloguing, and deducing things, events and people. A rather peculiar fellow, as Mike Stamford had introduced him, a queer man, the world at large would call him.

 

“You must eat something.”

He reached for the small silver bell that was set in front of him.

“I’m not hungry, Holmes.”

His skin took a slightly greenish tinge. The mere idea of swallowing anything solid or liquid nauseated the poor doctor; you do not need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce this.

“Yet, you should try to stomach something, as you will certainly know yourself, dear doctor.”

 

A few minutes later, Mrs Hudson appeared.

"Would you be so kind to bring something to eat for Mr. Watson? Nothing too heavy, please. And I could do with another cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson.”

The good woman knew the eccentrics of their tenants all too well went back to the kitchen without so much as blinking an eye. They paid a substantial rent but secretly, even all three would straight out deny it, have develop a sense of family over time. When her landlady now muttered and grumbled, they knew it was a show and a clear sign of affection.

The good woman soon returned with a large tray full of food as well as a teapot and two cups.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson; you are a treasure," the doctor said, looking at her, infinitely grateful.

"It's a pleasure, doctor," Mrs. Hudson replied with a smile.

 

“Come on, Watson, eat”, Holmes urged him on when Mrs Hudson had left them. “It will do you good. You, as a doctor, know this.”

With every bit, the doctor felt better, as the colour of his skin returned to normal soon.

Holmes could not prevent a smile.

He was such a lovesick fool. It could not be changed.

When he thought that Watson’s headache had become just a nuisance, he picked up his violin that he always kept close by and began to play one of his own compositions that he knew to be one of Watson’s personal favourites.

 

* * *

 

For some time, they remained that way: Watson, after finishing his food, reading the newspaper, and Holmes playing.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

 

Holmes stopped his private concerto immediately; the violin rested against his shoulder, the bow suspended in midair.

He raised his head. "Something tells me that our dear friend Lestrade needs us."

"Holmes, how do you know? At this time of the day, it could be anyone.”

“Let’s wait and see, Watson. Or, you do, as I am sure that I am right.”

Together, they heard Mrs. Hudson opening the door. Then, the unmistakable voice of the police officer was heard.

“How did you know? Come on, old boy, tell me”, Watson exclaimed, astonished and eager to listen to his train of thoughts once more.

 

His Boswell was learning, but Holmes would admit to himself – in private! – that he was pleased that Watson continue to be interested in Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and its peculiar talent. It had been quite a pleasant surprise to be not scolded or worse, neither be tolerated nor used, but to be praised by the man. It had been Holmes’ very own addiction since meeting John Watson. Moreover, with time, it proved to be as potent as his seven-percent-solution and his hunger for illegal fights.

 

“Watson, the details, the details. Lestrade is the only one who rings the bell in that impatient and energetic way. This pattern is even more prominent when the good inspector has a new case to put to my attention.”

Holmes rose up, stiff, and stopped when a new shock of pain went through his body. He would have fallen if Watson had not reacted quickly and supported him.

"For God's sake! Tell me what happened! “Watson blurted out.

The feeling of the close proximity sent a pleasant shiver over his body; treacherous body, foolish heart.

"Another side effect of the experiment," Holmes said indifferently as if what was happening to him was not important. He waited a few seconds, hoping that the sharp spasm that imprisoned the lower part of his torso would turn into a quiet pulsing, and then he straightened up and freed himself. "Do not fuss, Watson, please, it will pass.”

For a second, he indulged into clapping his hand on his arm, to reassure the doctor, for sure, and then he moved away and put some distance between them both. He knew all too well that prolonged contact would increase the possibility of Watson remembering something or Holmes losing his mind for good.

 

* * *

 

When Lestrade entered the sitting room, Holmes knew how to greet him: “And what does the good inspector need of us today?” He knew that in a few seconds, he would have to leave everything behind; he would have to store the one night in the dark corner of his mind, the sensation of the other men’s touch, the act of love they had shared, and to let his mask never slip.

It was time to be Sherlock Holmes again.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and fear not: THIS is not the end. Lucky you, the second installement of this fanfiction series is translated into English already. You can read it under the title "Fuck  & Fight (not particular in that order)" on Ao3. Futher, I will assure you, dear reader, that I have every intention in translating the third OS as well. 
> 
> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have a loooong journey (& lots of sex & miscommunication & oh, THE ANGST & FEELINGS) ahead but they're two idiots in love ;) Yes, they are. And they continue to be. However - SPOILER - it gets better (& hotter & there might be even talking about things at some point ^^). 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first installement of "You give love a bad name"-series aka my English translation of kelian's Italian story. Kudos are love. We (kelian & I) obviously would love to hear from you, - comment, reblog, like, whatever. It's a labour of love by two non-natives who happen to fall into the rabbit hole that is Johnlock (and one of them has not even watched Ritchie!Holmes in English in their life because of the language barrier. However, be rest assured, Italian sounds sexy too ;)) 
> 
> Thank you & mille grazie!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love. We (kelian & I) would love to hear from YOU. #fandom is our escape room


End file.
